Three-Day Town

by Margaret Maron

  He slumped down in the chair. “He has something on Antoine.”

  “He’s blackmailing Antoine?”

  Drew nodded.

  “How? What’s Antoine done?”

  “Corey says Antoine’s been stealing from some of the apartments. See, the super’s wife is like a klepto or something, so everyone thinks it’s her. I don’t know how Corey found out about it, but he did and Antoine pays him to keep quiet about it.”

  “He’s still stealing?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “The stealing or the blackmail?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know. Like, a couple of months maybe? Not for much. Just enough to get him into a poker game once in a while.”

  “Where’s the game?”

  “Now that I really don’t know. Honest. It’s some office building down in the Fifties. He’s never said and I don’t ask. I think he’s pretty good. He says he wins enough pots that with what he gets from Antoine he can keep playing once a week. He’s like trying to taper off, you know? Like when you quit smoking or drinking? He used to want to play almost every night. Now he’s down to only Tuesday or Thursday night. It’s crazy. I mean, we all like to play cards once in a while, but just penny-ante stuff. I can understand coke or meth. That messes with your body. Changes your chemistry.” He looked at them in bewilderment. “But gambling? How can it mess with your head that much?”

  And of course, they had no answer to the boy’s plaintive question. After a few more questions of their own, they thanked him and let him go.

  Sigrid looked at her watch. Nearly five o’clock. “Let’s talk to the porters again. See if they know more about Corey and Antoine. Are they still here?”

  “Vlad Ruzicka is, I know,” Lowry said. “He was on his way out to shovel the sidewalk when I came up. Tomorrow’s their pickup day and he had to make a place to set the bags.”

  “Let’s see what else he knows,” Sigrid said as she took a final swallow of her coffee. “Might as well add our cups to his trash.” She picked up her parka, which had been lying on the back of her chair, and realized that she had forgotten to tell them about the flip-flop that Deborah had found. She took it from her pocket to show them and Hentz immediately recognized that the earring stuck in the sole was a mate to the one they had found in Lundigren’s hand.

  “I doubt there are any usable prints on it,” she said, handing the bag to Urbanska. “Judge Knott and I both handled it before we realized what it was, and I suppose Luna DiSimone did, too.”

  “I’ll have it checked,” Urbanska promised.

  Hentz still had Lundigren’s keys and he led the way across the lobby, unlocked the door to the stairwell, and held it for the others while Lowry rang for the self-service elevator.

  Dinah Urbanska paused and looked up at him. “What do you think, Sam? Is our killer the person who wore that flip-flop or is it Antoine Clarke? And has Clarke killed the Wall boy?”

  “Let’s hope not,” he said grimly.

  When the elevator doors opened, they found themselves face-to-face with the excitable Vlad Ruzicka. The big ruddy man was white-faced and spluttering. “Thank God! I was just coming to find you. Oh my God, I can’t believe it! It’s horrible!”

  “Calm down,” said Lowry. “What’s happened?”

  Ruzicka immediately grabbed Lowry’s arm and dragged him through the outer door where two large wheeled garbage bins sat ready to roll up to the curb for tomorrow’s pickup. At the top of the ramp, on the sidewalk, the lid of a third bin was raised. “So heavy. Like a ton of lead. I said maybe somebody tossed another set of encyclopedias or some bricks or something, so I opened it up and oh my God!”

  Lowry leaned over the open bin and gingerly turned back the top of a black plastic bag.

  A young man stared back at him with open lifeless eyes.

  “Oh shit,” he said when he realized who it was.

  Bracing herself, Sigrid stepped forward to look into the bin. Instead of the white teenage boy she expected, she saw the narrow chinstrap beard that outlined Antoine Clarke’s dead face.

  CHAPTER

  19

  … but while they occupy a series of little cells in the fifteenth story of a sky-scraper, reached by an express elevator, warmed by steam, and lighted by electricity, what is the use of trying to keep a cow or striving to grow lilac bushes?

  —The New New York, 1909

  Thinking to kill two birds with one rock, I started down the hall to Luna’s apartment, remembered the door, and went back to give it a second pull. As I suspected, the latch had not fully engaged and I had to give it a hard yank before I heard a satisfactory click.

  “Oh, hi, Deborah!” Luna said when she answered her door. “Did you come to see what my place looks like in its winter clothes?”

  She pulled me in and I was astonished by the transformation. Gone was every trace of Saturday night’s summer ambiance. The oversized room actually had a warm and cozy feel now. Nothing remained to show that white wicker and rattan made up the bones of her furniture. The chairs and couches and even the swing were covered in thick plush slipcovers of rich jewel tones that glowed in the soft indirect lighting. It was still a good party space, but large Persian rugs defined various interlinked furniture groupings, and real-looking gas logs burned in the fireplace. A whole menagerie of colorful Mexican animals pranced across the mantelpiece. Huge abstract canvases added more warmth to the walls, and the windows were now draped in dark purple velvet over the white sheers that had made the room so breezy during the party.

  “This is absolutely amazing,” I said, thoroughly impressed.

  Luna beamed. “I told you that Cam was a genius. He designed the slipcovers and found someone to make them. And he arranged everything so that the room doesn’t overwhelm the furniture.”

  “Have you known him very long?”

  “Just since last year. Phyllis knew him first.”

  “Phyllis?”

  “Phyllis Parrish. She’s the one who was with me when we rode up in the elevator together Friday night. She lives next door. Plays the French maid on East Jarrett.”

  She saw my blank look. “One of the daytime soaps. It’s only a bit part but it pays the mortgage, and she gets to do summer stock in New England. We’ve known each other since our Sesame Street days, and when I saw how Cam decorated her place, I wanted him to do mine, too.”

  “Does he have a shop?”

  “Well, he does, but it’s only by appointment when a client’s ready to look at quirky accessories like my Oaxacan animals or—” She shrugged and grinned.

  I gave her my best girl-to-girl smile. “Or things a little more bawdy?”

  She giggled. “You know it! When he first staged my animals, I had to redo them before I could let my mother come over and see how the apartment looked. My cat was getting it on with the horny-looking horned toad. You should see his huge collection of little hand-blown glass figures that people bring him from Venice. There’s one set that’s like a symphony orchestra with all the players in tuxes and every single musician is doing something dirty, including the conductor who’s using his willy as a baton.”

  As soon as she said that, memory snapped into place. Of course! Cameron Broughton had been one of four men who pleaded guilty to a D&D when I held court in Wilmington a couple of years back. No wonder Broughton had tried to avoid me.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Sigrid. He might not be a killer, but he could well be the thief that had taken her grandmother’s bronze thing.

  “Are the paintings by your friend Nicco?”

  She nodded. “And see how Cam picked up the fabric colors from the pictures? It almost makes me want to throw another party. How long are you and Dwight going to be here?”

  “Just till the weekend,” I said regretfully.

  “I was hoping I could get Lieutenant Harald to come if you were going to be here. She never does the party scene, but t
hey say she came to mine because of you. Nicco was so pissed that he didn’t recognize her at first when she came back to question us yesterday. I mean, he’d heard she was a police officer, but you don’t expect the owner of Oscar Nauman’s pictures to show up at a murder, do you?”

  “I guess not, but speaking of murder, Luna—”

  “Oh, poor, poor Phil! Does she know why he was killed?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not something she would tell me.”

  “But Dwight’s a police officer, too, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but this isn’t his jurisdiction. What I actually came for was to ask if you could recommend a nearby florist? I want to take his widow some flowers.”

  “I should do that, too!” she exclaimed. “Or do you think I should wait for the memorial service?”

  She gave me the name and number of a shop three blocks away on Amsterdam Avenue. Back in the apartment and after talking to a pleasant clerk, I settled on a potted gardenia that he swore was covered in buds that were just coming into bloom. It was going to cost three times what a five-gallon bush from a Colleton County nursery would cost, but we were five hundred miles away from Colleton County and Mrs. Lundigren didn’t have a garden anyhow. When I told him it was for a recent death, he said he would add a white satin bow instead of the usual red one and that it would be there within the hour.

  While I waited, I called Emma and learned that nothing had changed on their end since we’d talked. “I can sort of understand why everyone’s upset, but really, Emma, it’s only a bare armpit, not a girl’s full frontal.”

  “I know that. You know that. Even Ashley knows that. But it’s the caption that was so awful. And that it was on Lee’s Facebook page. Mother doesn’t know about it yet, but when she does, it’s really going to hit the fan.”

  “So run me through it,” I said. “The school says you can’t carry a phone to class, right? Not even if it’s turned off?”

  “Not even if it’s turned off,” she said. “If you bring it into the building, you have to leave it in your locker or it will be confiscated for the rest of the day and you have to go to the office to get it back. The only time you can use it is during your lunch break.”

  “But you can legally use it during lunch?”

  “Right. That’s how I could call you. I have the last lunch period. Lee has the first and he says he did use his phone, but then he put it back in his locker.”

  “And he’s sure he locked it?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  I heard murmurings, then Lee came on the line. “Hey, Aunt Deborah. I’m sorry Emma’s bothering you on your honeymoon.”

  “Don’t be silly, honey. I just wish I could help.”

  “I swear to you I didn’t post that picture.”

  “I believe you, but who did? Who doesn’t like you and has the computer skills to hack into your Facebook account?”

  I could almost hear his frustrated shrug. “I don’t think it’s somebody who hates me. I think it’s probably someone who thought it’d be a big funny joke.”

  “Did Ashley have a boyfriend before you?”

  “Well, duh, Aunt Deborah.”

  “Sorry. So did she break up with someone who might be mad that she’s seeing you?”

  “They broke up before Christmas and he’s seeing somebody else, too.”

  “Back to your locker then. You’re positive you locked it?”

  “And twirled the dial so no one could just pull up on it. Some kids think it’s cool to leave their lockers unlocked so they can get in and out quicker, but then other kids will switch the open locks around, and next thing you know five kids are in the office trying to sort out the serial numbers so they can get their own locks back and get into their lockers.”

  Ah, yes. Another example of adolescent humor.

  “Where do you keep the combination?”

  “I don’t. One of the perks of being the assistant principal’s kid is that I get to hold on to the same lock I got when I was a freshman.”

  “Okay, forget about the lock for a minute, who knows your Facebook password?”

  “Nobody. Well… Mother knows it. That’s the only way Emma and I are allowed to have a page. I suppose she’d give it to Dad if he wanted it, but nobody else.”

  I’m as clueless about electronic technology as anybody can be these days and still log on to the Internet, figure out how to tape a program for later viewing, or make a wireless phone call. I do not tweet, twitter, or Facebook though, and I can barely send a text message. “Walk me through the process, Lee. Once someone has your phone, how can they send a picture to your Facebook?”

  “You do know that phones can connect to the Internet, right?”

  “So I’ve heard. Mine doesn’t.”

  “I know.” His tone was dry. I’m not a total Luddite, but all the kids know that I think phones are for making and receiving calls. Anything else? That’s what a laptop’s for.

  “It’s easy,” Lee assured me. “You just take a picture, crop it, save it, then log on to your Facebook page. Once you’re there, you can click the photo icon, locate the picture on your phone, click CHOOSE, and send it.”

  There was a brief silence, then Lee said, “Oh crap! You know something? I checked my page at lunchtime and I might not have logged off.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if someone got my phone, they wouldn’t have to know my password. My Facebook page accepts anything from my phone till I actually log off.”

  I could hear Emma’s excited, “That’s it, Lee! You idiot! Of course that’s how they did it!”

  “But how did they get into my locker?” he howled.

  “Who has the lockers next to yours?” I asked.

  “I’m on the end, so there’re only three. The bottom locker is a freshman girl. I don’t know her name. On the left, the top one is Jamie Benton, and the bottom one’s Mark McLamb. They’re both juniors.”

  “Jamie Benton? Jenny and Max Benton’s son?”

  Murmured consultation between brother and sister.

  “Emma says yes. Why?”

  “No reason.” I wasn’t sure how general the knowledge was that the Bentons were divorcing and that they were locked in a custody battle over the boy. “He and the other boy, Mark? Are they good friends?”

  “I guess. They horse around at their lockers, but there’s no way they could get into mine.”

  “Two minutes ago you were saying there was no way anyone could post on your Facebook page. If you left your page unprotected you could’ve left your locker unlocked.”

  “No way,” he said stubbornly.

  “Do those boys have the same lunch period as you?”

  More off-phone chatter, then Lee said, “A.K. says they have second lunch with his group.”

  If A.K. was standing right there, it’s a safe bet all his teenage cousins were, too. Between them, they could cover a lot of ground.

  “Get the others to see what those two were doing during lunch. And ask that freshman girl if she saw anybody fooling around with your locker today.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Deborah. I will. Everybody says tell you hey.”

  I heard a chorus of heys in the background. Before I could make any further suggestions, he broke the connection. He’s a gentle boy, but maybe his sister and his cousins would teach him something about the art of intimidation.

  Had Phil Lundigren’s death happened back in Colleton County, I would now be taking his widow a plate of homemade sausage biscuits, a casserole, or a cake I had baked myself. Food is the universal offering for a house of mourning when all the relatives pour in and need to be fed. Doing something tangible for the bereaved allows friends and neighbors to feel a little less helpless in the face of death. Hell, I’ve even carried a casserole to a presumably grieving widow, only to later learn that she was the one who had planned her husband’s murder.

  I had no idea if Mrs. Lundigren had an alibi for Saturday night, nor even whether the marriage was a
happy one. Hoping I wasn’t repeating that past mistake, I rummaged in the refrigerator for a wedge of Brie that Dwight had brought home from the market yesterday. An unopened sleeve of crackers and a bunch of grapes would have to sub for a casserole. I arranged the cheese and crackers on one of the pretty paper plates I found in the cupboard, placed the grapes in the middle, and covered everything with plastic wrap. When the gardenia plant arrived, I freshened up and rang for the elevator. The man on duty was still Sidney, who was starting to feel like an old friend by now.

  He gave a smile of approval when I told him the flowers were from Kate. “That sounds like her. When my father died last year, she sent a beautiful wreath even though she hasn’t lived here for going on five or six years.”

  I asked him which was the Lundigren apartment and if he knew whether or not Mrs. Lundigren was at home. “We heard she had to be hospitalized when they told her about her husband.”

  “Yeah. One of the porters said she came home around lunchtime today. Told me she was quite chatty in fact.”

  “Chatty? Kate said she had an anxiety disorder that made it hard for her to talk to people.”

  “Not today. Vlad says Denise talked to him more today than the whole time he’s worked here. The friend that brought her home from the hospital told Vlad that the doctor gave Denise some pills that were better than three martinis.”

  When I got off the elevator, Sigrid and her team of detectives were conferring with a teenage boy in a far corner of the lobby. She had her back to me and the others didn’t seem to recognize me behind all the cellophane and ribbons. Sidney told me that the Lundigren apartment was around the corner, so I decided to mind my own business and stay on task. I did not want to risk being asked about Chloe Adams again.

  “Mrs. Lundigren?” I said to the large heavyset woman who opened the door when I rang.

  “No, I’m her friend Alice Rosen. Do come in. Denise is in the den.”

  I tried to say I didn’t know the woman and was here only as an emissary of my sister-in-law, but it was useless. The woman was already disappearing down a hallway like a white rabbit, so I followed her through a small living room that looked like an illustration from Better Homes and Gardens into a room that was not quite as pretty but had a more lived-in air.